


Platinum Cufflinks

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Slytherin, The Quidditch Pitch: Slytherin Common Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-13
Updated: 2005-11-13
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Theodore/Blaise....





	Platinum Cufflinks

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: he sixth of twenty-two ficlets for my birthday. This one is written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=tipgardner)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tipgardner/)**tipgardner** , who asked for _Theodore/Blaise, platinum, cufflinks, Old Line Men's Club, the future, post-war._  


* * *

The Old Line Men’s Club is tucked in a quiet – some might say dingy – corner of London. Those who would say dingy would also be among those unfortunates unable to gain membership to the prestigious establishment.  
  
The walls are hung with draperies, and the club chairs in the library upholstered with scratched red leather. The tarnished silver of trophies gleam softly in the gloom, imprisoned in glass-fronted cabinets. Velvet drapes block the light in the smoking room, the air redolent with cigar smoke and port fumes. Peppery men’s cologne flavours the air, stinging at Blaise’s nostrils, the scent familiar, reassuring.  
  
A neatly dressed, (if slightly cowed) Muggle slave always serves the after-dinner brandy in the library. This particular evening, Blaise saunters down the hallway from the dining room, buffing his nails casually on his shirt. Theodore has said he would meet him here, to discuss a business proposition.  
  
He hasn’t seen Theodore since the war, since that final night when the Dark Lord was declared victorious, and Theodore grinned in triumph, teeth bared and blood dripping down his chin.  
  
He sprawls in an armchair facing the shelves, shaking _The Daily Prophet_ over his face. Reports of more resistance fighters hunted down, although still no word of Potter. He snorts derisively, flinging the paper onto the ground next to his chair, raising his eyes to Theodore’s dark expression.  
  
Theodore calmly _accios_ a chair, seating himself opposite Blaise, and gestures a slave over with a casual wave of one hand. He orders a brandy, asking for a double measure. When the slave is gone, he begins speaking.  
  
“Blaise. I am pleased you agreed to meet me here today. I believe I have an idea that may interest you. And if not, well,” he shrugs. “I’m sure other people may be interested in your stead.”  
  
Blaise considers Theodore through narrowed eyes. He hasn’t changed much really, since the final battle. Since being bedraggled and filthy, with the muck and the blood and the tears, desperate rutting in the dark.  
  
His eyes are still fringed with the longest eyelashes Blaise has ever seen, the deep brown colour dark enough, wide enough, for him to fall forwards, sink into. Drown.  
  
He almost did that once, Blaise remembers. The night before that final confrontation. The stars had been clear, clearer than he’d ever seen him. They hadn’t been like brilliant diamonds shining across the black velvet of heaven, or any of that rot, but he didn’t think they’d ever be so bright again, luminous and strong against the arch of the sky.  
  
Of course, he had thought that it was his last night on earth, that he would never see the stars arranged in that configuration ever again. Who could have known that Potter would lose his nerve when Bellatrix killed the old man from behind, running in disarray and gulping sobs from the battlefield.  
  
He’d found Theodore that night, he remembers. Huddled in the shadow of a boulder, away from the fires, from the Dark Lord stirring fierce passion in his followers. He’d looked at Blaise with blurry eyes, misted and clouded with fear.  
  
Blaise has sat down next to him, the ground damp, seeping through his robes. Theodore’s lips had been warm under his own, chapped and rough, but his tongue had been smooth, hot and unfamiliar.  
  
He blinked, lost for a few seconds before noticing Theodore’s uninterrupted flow of talk. He offered Blaise a small box, and Blaise took it, confused. The navy velvet box was a comforting size in his hand, still slightly warm from Theodore’s hand. Blaise swallows, as he thinks about where this box has been, resting next to the heat and smooth muscle of Theodore’s thigh.  
  
“Well, go on. Open it,” Theodore says excitedly, gesturing excitedly with his hands.  
  
Blaise blinks, but creaks the box open, cradling it in his palms.  
  
“Platinum – cufflinks?” his voice quavers. “Theodore, I mean – I’m not – you shouldn’t –“ he breaks off, wondering at the sheer expense of the gift. He knows the state of the Nott family finances.  
  
And then Theodore is on him, pushing him back into the leather, heavy and hot across his thighs, erection insistent in his stomach, eyes dark and liquid. And then Theodore’s mouth is on his, heated, meltingly hot, and he doesn’t need to think anymore.


End file.
